


scored steel

by kogaritsu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Coping, Gen, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, correct my mistakes i wrote this off my shit at 2 am, i have never fucking played this game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 01:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kogaritsu/pseuds/kogaritsu
Summary: The moon danced between clouds behind the pulled curtains, sneaking along the cobbled wall to reflect hairline scars along the honed blade. Sylvain dragged his fingertips, callused from pen strokes instead of halberd after so many years, along the smooth metal, eyes pinched shut and lungs full enough to burst. Empathy wasn’t always his strong suit, he could admit that, but the emotion encased in fine steel were detectable by even the most incompetent.





	scored steel

**Author's Note:**

> ok! so i dont have a switch and im not even really into 3h i hope this is okay 
> 
> [ heres the tweet that inspired me tonigth thank you so much op](https://twitter.com/pukapukasquid/status/1164583648538050560?s=20)

The war ended bloody and harsh, with more loss, Sylvain thought after a few too many drinks, than the end justified. It was over, however, and he had no right to dispute the means that were necessary to end its grisly reign. He became Margrave Gautier, as he was destined to from birth, and it was as bland and dry as the books predicted. His future was written for him, and while he wasn’t content with being bound to puppet strings, he was significantly less lonely as Fódlan rose from the ashes of war. For every friend that passed on through violence and warfare, Sylvain made an effort to embrace the life he was living in their stead. He hoped that his effort would be appreciated from where they rested, but couldn’t bear to fret over it for longer than a few minutes at a time. His living friends beared the same weight, he was certain. He knew, at least, that they shared the tireless nightmares that accompanied their war memories.

Skirmishes were far from uncommon, even through the alliance with Almyra. They were what they were, but were an issue nonetheless; Sylvain found himself watching another friend slip from his grasp before he had a chance to thank the Goddess for staying with him in the war. Felix was needed elsewhere, though, and who was Sylvain to ask him to stay anywhere he felt unneeded. So he watched him go, admiring a final time the sharp angle of his jaw and acuteness line of his brow. Training would be lonely, not that they’d have the chance to train together even if Felix had stayed home to live out his nobility. 

Some days, the loneliness Felix left at his side felt far more vexing than the hole in his heart that remained vacant in Dimitri’s honor. That being said, some days Sylvain hardly missed him at all, hearing over the wind of a skirmish won by some shadowed mercenary. There was no reason to place and name and face to the epithet, but Sylvain was sentimental in the best of times, brainstorming snappy things to say if they ever crossed paths again. Something about mounting Felix’s sword when he died crossed his mind, but he made a note to never even consider voicing such nonsense. With his luck, Felix would outlive him, anyway.

Decades bleed together like foolishly mixed ink, and before long Sylvain had no time to think of Felix’s absence. Every once in a while, perhaps, he considered him by name, most other times envisioning the swing of his blade and impact of his boot. Some nights, when he was between wives and lacked children to chase after, he stayed up wishing he could remember a particular curve of building muscle. It’d dominated his thoughts throughout his young teenage years, taunting him along the edge of the mirror as he got ready for bed. High cheekbones and a sharp nose etched themselves into his memory like the smell of home, lost lost in time but virtually unforgettable. 

By the dawn of his middle ages, Sylvain still lacked children, searching for a ward instead of a third wife to occupy his time. Hard times had struck Fódlan again, however, not in the severity they once had. Nonetheless, a difficult decision reared its ugly head, demanding a choice be made and quickly, before innocent lives were put in danger. It was almost amusing to read in his reports that it was none other than an old friend causing such a ruckus. Nausea twisted his gut all the same, and he took the afternoon off to come to terms with the fact that he’d have to call for the death of another classmate. 

It may have been pure luck that Sylvain knew precisely who to consult for a job so sensitive. It was hell to call upon him, and even more difficult to lure him into the parlor for an unprofessional reconciliation. Unlucky for him, Sylvain was twice widowed, and had spent a lot of time tricking his wives into shenanigans both romantic and not. Frankly, Felix didn’t stand a chance against him once he put in an effort. And he did try, even going so far as to have a guest bed prepared in hopes that they could sleep under the same roof for the first time since the war. His hopes were, knowingly, far too high.

“The years have treated you well,” He greeted Felix at the front gates, then stopped, because Felix didn’t blush like he did when they were young, instead offering a nearly kind smile.

When Sylvain dreamt of reunion, he hoped for hours of stimulating conversation to take to his grave. What he got, from Felix at least, was a tense two-hour discussion about the job at hand and little else. Of course, because he still had his basest talents, Sylvain managed to talk Felix into divulging a few traveling tales. They were told from a boring point of view, but after growing up listening to Felix talk, Sylvain was an expert of picking out the little things in his voice. It was one of the few things that remained fresh in his mind despite the passing time. Oh, how he missed having friends that could tell his inner workings by the way he enunciated his consonants. 

Felix didn’t spend the night in the guest quarters, but was convinced to stay for supper, staying characteristically quiet throughout. The conversation was by no means lacking, nor was the dining hall quiet when the two of them got into it like they had as children. Sylvain didn’t entirely enjoy remembering his childhood, but with Felix there, it was a great deal easier to bear the ache. When they parted ways for the evening, he found he wanted to beg for company, holding his tongue if only for his dignity. 

Breakfast wasn’t shared, and Felix’s visit the following day was nothing short of disappointing after such a lively evening. He didn’t request to come inside, and denied when he was inviting, insisting that it was fantastic traveling weather. Sylvain had no spirit to argue, retrieving the retainer for his services without complaint. Whatever spark had erupted between them all those years ago had burnt out, and there was no reason to force a connection when they didn’t fit together. 

“Stain your blade for me.” Sylvain had said regardless, gagging on the taste of his words.

“I would never,” Felix had replied, tone as flat as it was when they were children playing war, “My blade is far too important for me to allow it to rust.”

As he left, just as he left decades prior, Sylvain watched, wanting just as bad to call him back and keep him safe. It was a selfish desire, quelled by the way the wind blew Felix out of Fódlan and far from Sylvain’s home. There was no space in his heart for worry, and the hunt for a ward recommenced with a vengeance; the greatest lesson he’d learn with the loss of his friends was that war was ruthless and unrelenting. Who knew when his time would come? It always paid to be ready, he thought.

Felix returned to him four months later, hauling a canvas bag that Sylvain wouldn’t peer inside of. He stayed the night this time around, and shared two meals instead of one, this time with both Sylvain and the ward he’d taken. It was, for lack of a more colorful word, nice. When he departed again, Sylvain felt satisfied with the note they’d left on, and a weight was partially lifted from his shoulders. 

The night he left, and every one following it for what felt like ages, Sylvain was roused by violent nightmares.

The following years moved at a snail’s pace. Beau grew up strong and talented, choosing to move from Sylvain home when he married. He returned home often, deigning to call upon Sylvain as his father. More than anything, it was a heartwarming solution to a problem he’d hardly known existed for himself. When his house was empty again, Sylvain found himself reminiscing again, wondering just where _all_ of his friends ended up. As he tended to the overgrown rosebush by the broken gates, he considered what Lorenz did in his free time. He’d heard plenty of his policies and other political marvels, but not much else. When he put aside Beau’s schoolbooks, he thought of Hilda, smiling fondly at the thought of where he knew she’d ended up. Sylvain hadn’t caught eye of Marianne in many years, but briefly said a prayer, over his lunch, one day in hopes that it would grant her strength. Felix continued to cross his mind from time to time, but was pushed away before the loneliness could return.

Sylvain didn’t allow his worries for his former friends and classmates keep him up at night, knowing that it wouldn’t help anyone. The nightmares never stopped, but dwindled into an occasional occurrence, a kindness he was thankful for every morning. That isn’t to say he didn’t dream of his friends’ untimely passings, often shaking himself awake to the sound of Dimitri’s anguished screams. One fateful night, he shook awake on the everlasting sound of Dedue’s grieving cries to hear someone knocking at his front door. His front gates had long been rusted out, a sad demise for his first line of defense, so the time was the biggest surprise of all. 

For a moment, he assumed the knocking at his door was Beau coming home to ask for something, then rationalized that he wouldn’t come at such a god awful time. The window by the door showed no guest, just a sheath of fabric that swayed in the nighttime breeze. Metal glinted with every gust, tantalizing beyond compare. Obviously, Sylvain opened the door.

A sword was lain on his doorstep, wrapped like a gift and well maintained. It took no thought to determine to whom this sword belonged; it took no thought, as well, to know why such a cherished sword was left for him. His throat itched, tight and restricted in a way that refused to allow him words or tears. So, rather than mourn in his front door, he knelt, lifted it to his chest like he would a child, and carried it inside. The handle, wrapped and rewrapped a thousand times over, was familiar like childhood calluses. Never in his life, not even through war and strife, had Sylvain so desperately hoped for a noble death to arrive sooner. But it wouldn’t.

His bedroom was empty and dim when he returned to it, bedsheets disturbed from his foul dream. It was a tragic decision to set Felix’s sword upon the never disturbed sheets on the far edge of his bed, however Sylvain placed it against the fluffed pillows like a treasured lover. The moon danced between clouds behind the pulled curtains, sneaking along the cobbled wall to reflect hairline scars along the honed blade. Sylvain dragged his fingertips, callused from pen strokes instead of halberd after so many years, along the smooth metal, eyes pinched shut and lungs full enough to burst. Empathy wasn’t always his strong suit, he could admit that, but the emotion encased in fine steel were detectable by even the most incompetent. He wanted to cry for his fallen friend, wanted to scream and express and feel all of the bottled emotion he’d swallowed for decades of rule. But he couldn’t manage it.

Felix’s final words to him, both times they were uttered, branded the interior of his skull, audible only when he stopped thinking about them. While he knew the connotation of a seasoned sword delivered on a merchant’s back all too well, it had yet to sink in. When it finally sunk to the marrow of his bones, it replaced years of piled exhaustion, instead offering a heavy sort of lethargy. Deep, calm breaths shuddered off into quiet huffs, like cardiac arrest without the chance of peace. 

The sun rose on wispy clouds, and Sylvain wept onto shining steel, hoping in the hollow of his chest that it’d rust, too.

**Author's Note:**

> :confounded: my twitter is mihouji but this was a one time fe thing im sowwy
> 
> ill edit this tomorrow i wanna go to bed


End file.
